The King's Henchmen: The Henchmen Chronicles - Book 1

by Craig Halloran

  The skies rumbled. The clouds were turning dark.

  “A bad rain is coming,” Cudgel said. He held out his hand and twisted it up and down. “In about an hour. Maybe it will wash some of the stink out of here.”

  “I doubt it,” Sticks mumbled. She was squatting beside Dominga and Iris.

  All of them covered up the best they could in their blankets. That was the only thing the prisoners were given when they entered. It kept prying eyes off them.

  “It’s only going to turn this dung hole into a mudhole. It always does.”

  The prison yard was packed dirt. No grass grew. With over one thousand people walking about, no vegetation would survive. No cells, dungeons, walls, bars, or chains existed. Each prisoner was on his own. They were treated like animals. Many newcomers didn’t survive the first day because they were beaten to death and thrown into the pits below the Wall of Defecation. That was the southwest wall, converted into a massive latrine fifty feet long. A creek of sludge at the bottom washed excrement out to sea. It was the last place a woman wanted to be without an escort.

  “I’ve got to go,” Dominga said.

  Sticks rolled her eyes. She’d been a Henchman a long time. This wasn’t her first visit to Baracha either. She’d lived here briefly and in the king’s dungeons. But this was Dominga’s first time. She was a Red Tunic who’d only made her way up to Henchman on the last mission. She wasn’t a former prisoner, either. She was a volunteer who started at the bottom, like the rest. Pretty but tough, she’d somehow made it.

  “Come with us,” Bearclaw said. Vern, Tark, and Cudgel joined him.

  “I need to go too,” one of the retainers said. She was the young pie-faced woman with a lot of freckles and dimples in her cheeks. Twila was her name, the only other woman left besides Sticks, Iris, and Dominga. She held her blanket tight around her body. Her hands trembled.

  Tark waved the women over, and the men escorted Dominga and Twila away.

  As soon as the group started walking away, the vulgarity came out from the surrounding prisoners.

  Sticks shook her head. Animals. She did a head count of who was left: Horace, Bearclaw, Vern, Cudgel, Tark, Iris, Prospero, Apollo, and Dominga. Including her, that made ten of them, plus five Red Tunics. The rest of the Red Tunics and retainers had fled the moment they heard the word Baracha.

  Aside from the Henchmen, plenty of rough characters were wandering the prison yard, hardened men and women, and others just pitiful. Most of them were waiting on their sentencing, but if they died, that made the entire process a lot simpler for the courts. Baracha made a fine crime deterrent, but too many troublemakers couldn’t help themselves. If threatened, the Henchmen could hold their own. But some had died in Baracha. Sticks just hoped their wait wouldn’t be too long.

  Horace slid into Dominga’s spot. Squatting by Sticks and Iris, he asked, “Do you think we are going to make it out of here this time?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like we’ve been getting by on borrowed time. After this last debacle, I think the king’s grace will end for us,” she said.

  Rocking back and forth on her heels, Iris said, “Oh, don’t say that. I’m facing life in prison for my mysticism. I only use it to help people.”

  Sticks scanned the crowd and saw the top of Bearclaw’s head. Many lust-filled eyes were following the group. Baracha was the worst place for a woman to be. One had to be a very bad woman to get there. But they had their gangs in the yard too.

  “It’s death or the dungeons for us,” Sticks said.

  “At least we’ll have our own room. Even though the grave is a very small one,” Horace said.

  “Yeah, if we have a body left to put in the grave,” she said.

  Iris plugged her ears. “Oh, don’t say that either.”

  Horace chuckled. “So, what is your take on Ruger? He’s not been the same since the tunnel.”

  “I don’t know,” Sticks said.

  “Of course you know. You slept with him.”

  “So?”

  “I’ll sleep with him,” Iris said. “I’ll get a lot of information out of him.”

  Horace shook her head. “So you’ll sleep with him and not with me?”

  “You aren’t Ruger, or even close,” Iris said.

  “What do you mean?” he objected. “I’m all man. I might not look like Ruger, but I’ve the same iron-made muscle under these puffy arms.”

  With a subtle neck roll, Iris turned her nose away and said, “It’s not that.”

  “Well, what is it then?” he asked.

  Sticks held a hand up. “Can the two of you do this some other time?”

  Horace harrumphed and said, “I’ve been at this for over five years. Two good years, three bad ones. I probably know him better than any. Sticks, you know him second best. But I think something is wrong with him. Like before.” Horace spoke quietly. “Do you think he’s possessed?”

  Sticks knew Horace knew him as well as she. Horace was a former Guardian like Ruger. They’d ridden together for years before the Henchmen. So had Bearclaw and Vern. The rest of them were convicts and hopeless misfits. They were an expendable resource given a new purpose to serve the king. The missions went well at first then started to slide backward a couple years ago. She told a white lie. “I think he got his courage back.”

  “I think it’s too little, too late,” Horace said. He looked about. “The king will be done with us.”

  “I hope not,” Iris said.

  “Hope isn’t for people like us,” Sticks replied.

  Bearclaw, Vern, Tark, and Cudgel returned with Dominga and Twila. The women had deep frowns on their faces.

  Horace moved aside and let the women take their place by the wall. “That was quick.”

  “That’s because we didn’t make it.” Bearclaw turned toward a large unsavory group of men and women marching straight toward them. “They stopped us.”

  Horace looked at the ugly group of thugs. “What do they want?”

  “They want to swap women.”

  35

  King Hector’s castle, the House of Steel, was built on a bluff overlooking the Bay of Elders. The castle itself was nothing short of magnificent. It was one hundred thousand square feet of living space made of block stones, archways, and pillars of marble. The walls were blocks of white marble with golden and rusty flecks. The pillars and archways were black with swirls of gold and bronze in them. The hallways had carpets running the length of the floor. Great tapestries depicting stories of Kingsland’s history adorned the walls. The stories they told were astonishing. Mighty fire-breathing beasts and heroes that looked as if they were hewn out of rock decorated the tapestries. The forces of light battled the invasion of darkness. Colossal beings with armor made of stars battled in the heavens. Abraham lost his breath looking at the detailed scenes, amazed that someone could sew something with such accuracy.

  How in the world do they do this?

  “Keep your unworthy eyes off of my father’s tapestries,” Lewis said. He shoved Ruger in the back. “Eyes on the floor, servant dog.”

  Abraham dropped his gaze to the floor and let Lewis lead him through the castle. The haughty prince marched on with his chin up in silent triumph. Lewis hated Ruger. It took a while for Abraham’s mind to recollect exactly why, but when it came to him, he found it perfectly understandable. Lewis had crossed swords with Ruger once. The prince had the ugly scar on his lip and chin to show for it.

  I’d hate me too.

  With the King’s Guardians posted all throughout the castle, he and Lewis traveled alone. They made their way to the parapets that made a pathway around the castle. From the top of the west wall, he could see the sprawling city of Burgess. A road of stone as wide as five wagons ran down from the castle to the grand capital city. The sprawling city stretched out for miles in a grid of well-built buildings and cottages. Beyond that city were farmlands. North and south of the castle were docks, beaches, and a harbor bustling with activity and commerce. Fro
m the castle’s point of view, Burgess was perfect, but that was far from the truth.

  The House of Steel’s spires were another marvel of brilliant architecture. The six stone columns surrounding the castle rose a hundred feet high and were capped by twisting spearlike steel tips that shone in the sunlight. The House of Steel’s gigantic flag hung outward from the top neck of the tower, flapping in the brisk ocean winds. But that wasn’t why the king’s castle was known as the House of Steel. Abraham’s neck rose upward. It was called the House of Steel because of the gargantuan sword stuck downward tip first in the middle of it.

  With the bottom end of the crusted-over sword standing fifty feet higher than the tips of the towers, it dwarfed everything else about the castle. The pommel had cross guards angled forty-five degrees downward. The blade sank into the top of the castle and vanished into the building. The gargantuan blade’s steel showed a petrified look of gray stone covered in the gritty element carried by centuries of the salty sea winds. It was forbidden to touch the Sword of Stone. The Sword of Stone, according to the legends, was the weapon of Titanuus, buried in his leg after the celestial, Antonugus, defeated him. Seabirds nested in the hilt. Droppings and grit were all over the massive stone.

  “Will you keep pace?” Lewis said. “You always gawk every time you see it. After you’ve seen it once, I don’t see how you would ever forget. It’s nothing but a poop stand now.”

  Abraham hustled up to Lewis. They rounded the southern wall toward the east side, where the king would be waiting. The east side was the safest place for the king, out of the view of his enemies. The backside of the castle was protected by two hundred feet of sheer cliffs, making it virtually impenetrable—not to mention the fleet of ships guarding the king’s harbor and the soldiers who patrolled the entire castle. The King’s Guardians in the castle numbered over one hundred. The king’s personal soldiers numbered another thousand. He commanded an army over thirty-five thousand strong. They patrolled Kingsland cities, but the largest host of them were stationed at bases protecting the King’s Foot and the border mountains between Kingsland and Southern Tiotan.

  Two of the King’s Guardians stepped aside, allowing entrance to the king’s grand terrace, which overlooked the Bay of Elders. Lewis and Abraham approached a man wearing a garish blue-seafoam-colored robe with lion’s fur around the shoulders. He had his back to them, his gaze fixed toward the sea. Abraham’s heart started to race. Sweat gathered on his brow. He was in the presence of the king.

  36

  Sticks slid up the wall. She had a small broken piece of stone in her hand. This wouldn’t be the first prison scrap she’d been in, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. Hanging back, she let Horace do the talking. He’d stepped to the front, facing the gang of goons who outnumbered them two to one. “Who is demanding a swap?” he asked.

  A man pushed his way through the net of greasy bodies. He wore a cloak with a hood covering his eyes. A strange symbol was carved into his cheek. In a silky voice, the man said, “Why, that would be me, Horace. Baracha welcomes you back.”

  Horace stepped forward and glowered down at the man. “Save your pleasantries for some other fool stuffed inside these walls, Shade. Be on your way.”

  Shade lifted a finger. Unlike everyone else in the prison camp, his hands and clothing were clean. “Ah, ah, ah, I think that you would be wise to listen to me, you bearded egg. My offer is very generous. As you can see, I’m offering six of my finest maidens for only two of yours.”

  He stepped aside to show off the six ugly women he was talking about. Two of them were a pair of old crones, white eyes blinded by time, staring aimlessly and leaning on canes. The other four were flabby whores with hungry smiles that offered mouthfuls of missing teeth. They blew kisses at him with puffy lips.

  “They will keep you warm when the winter comes.”

  Horace crossed his arms over his belly. “We won’t be here for winter.”

  Shade rolled his neck. “Are you sure? As I understand it, you will be here for a long while. Take my offer. It’s the best one that you will get from me. I offer protection. You don’t want to be free game. Even men of your strength cannot overcome the sheer weight of superior numbers.”

  Horace looked down at Shade, who wasn’t very tall but was fairly well built. He stepped on Shade’s clean boots. “You’re starting to piss me off, maggot. Begone.”

  Shade pulled his feet free. “You shouldn’t have done that!” He didn’t hide his irritation. “Be wise, and make a deal with me. If you don’t, you won’t be left alone. Not ever.”

  “It is not our decision to make,” Horace said. He stepped aside. “I’ll tell you what. If the women that accompany us are willing to make the swap, then who are we to stand in your way. Go ahead. Ask them yourself, worm.”

  Shade eased his way forward two steps past Horace. He cleared his throat. Addressing Dominga and Twila, he said, “Ladies, it would be in your best interest to accompany me to a more suitable arrangement in the camp. You will need my protection. Word has it that you won’t be leaving, or you will at least be here for a long internment.” He touched his chest and bowed. “I’ll personally see to it that you are well taken care of.”

  “Does that include me?” Sticks said in her dry voice. She walked right toward Shade and stood eye to eye with him. “Well, does it, Shade?”

  The swarthy man’s Adam’s apple rolled. “Why, Sticks. I didn’t realize that was you. I thought you were just another one of the boys. But, yes, I would gladly extend my offer to include you, but I’d have to take two of my hags, er, maidens back.”

  Sticks grabbed him by the gonads and squeezed. “How about you stay on your side of the camp, and when we walk, you look the other way?”

  The Henchmen chuckled with under-their-breath laughter.

  Shade jumped away from her. “You will regret this misgiving, you plank-faced fool. I run this yard, not you!” He huddled inside the safety of his surly group and pointed his finger at all of them. “And don’t you think for a moment that any of you are going to get out of here anytime soon. Not alive, that is. I have long ears. As long as any. The king is through with you.” He started to turn around and turned back. “And make your own facilities. You are not welcome in mine!” Holding his crotch, he and his gang moved on.

  Dominga stood beside Sticks and bumped wrists with her. “What’s between you and him?”

  “We have a history,” Sticks said.

  “It’s pretty clear that he hates you.”

  “He hates all of us. He used to be a Henchman, but the Captain booted him out.” That was only part of her story. Shade and Sticks had a deeper history than that, one she preferred to forget about. “He always gives us a hard time when we come back.”

  “Well, he’s wrong, right? We won’t be here that long, will we?” Dominga said.

  “That I’m not so sure about. Shade might be a worm, but he doesn’t make idle threats.”

  Near the middle of the courtyard, Shade had more prisoners gathering around him. He pointed in the Henchmen’s direction. If he said something, he meant it. And he appeared to have taken control of one of the largest gangs in the prison. If he wanted them dead, he could probably get away with it. It would be a problem—a fatal one.

  Heavy rain drops began to fall. Thunder rumbled in the sky.

  Holding out his hand, Cudgel said, “The rain comes early. A bad sign.”

  A group of tall men with long ears and bulging trap muscles almost up to their ears broke away from Shade’s pack. Not ordinary men, they were from a race of barbaric brutes called Gonds. They weren’t good for much more than soldiering and farming. They were stupid but fought like their heads were on fire. Their impulsive urges got them in heaps of trouble. Now, eight of them were coming toward the Henchmen with their big fists swinging at their sides.

  Horace cracked his knuckles. Vern clenched his jaws. Bearclaw cracked his neck side to side. Sticks rubbed her rock. In the background, Shade stood with hi
s hands on his hips, smiling.

  Horace breathed deeply in through his nostrils, and his broad chest expanded. “It looks like the dance is starting early.”

  37

  Lewis dropped to one knee. “Hail to the King.” He bowed.

  Abraham felt Lewis’s hard stare on him and awkwardly sank down to one knee. He was about to repeat what Lewis had said but bit his tongue. He kept his eyes down, the same as Lewis, who sent an irritated sideward glance at him.

  Nothing was said in a strange moment that felt like an eternity. The soft footfalls of King Hector approached. Abraham could see the hem of King Hector’s robes dusting the tops of his shiny brown leather boots. The knot in Abraham’s throat tightened. The king had an aura that stood his hairs on end. It was a foreign experience. He was dying to look up but dared not. He didn’t know why, but Lewis wasn’t looking up either, and he was the king’s own son.

  “Rise, son,” King Hector said in the polished voice of an English gentleman.

  Lewis slowly came to his feet, and the king embraced him.

  In a warm and fatherly manner, the king said, “I take it that your journey to Swain was without incident.”

  “There was some rabble that attacked the King’s Guardians. They were taken care of, Father.”

  “You killed them?” King Hector sighed. “I hate to hear it. But they must be made an example of. Just tell me that they weren’t Kingsland citizens. That’s hard to accept. Tell me they were more infidel invaders.”

  “I don’t know. One enemy of the crown is the same as the other, citizen or not.”

  The king rubbed his hands together. “Sometimes I wonder if my stern tactics are the problem,” Hector said. He walked back toward the patio wall as Lewis followed. “I have gallows in every quadrant of the city. Traitors are hung every day. Still, with a sickness, they assault the crown. I don’t understand how that can be. Not so long ago, it didn’t use to be this way.”